


fix me when i break myself on the edges of revenge

by Spoofymcgee



Series: AU-gust 2020 [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Bittersweet, Coffee, Coffee Shops, I repeat, PLO IS NOT TRYING TO HURT HIMSELF, Rain, Sort Of, all of the characters mentioned except wolffe are teaches or students, also a little mafia au, are a BYPRODUCT, his injuries, if you're squinting why are you reading this fic, in the background - Freeform, kind of?, of fighting gangsters and nuggets to protect schoolchildren, platonic if you squint, this is kinda sad, this is not self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25861813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoofymcgee/pseuds/Spoofymcgee
Summary: plo only gets coffee when he's injured.no one bothered to inform wolffe about this.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox & CC-2224 | Cody & CC-3636 | Wolffe & CC-5052 | Bly & CC-6454 | Ponds, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-5052 | Bly & CC-2224 | Cody & CC-6454 | Ponds & CT-7567 | Rex & CC-3636 | Wolffe, Plo Koon & CC-3636 | Wolffe, Plo Koon & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Series: AU-gust 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861135
Comments: 15
Kudos: 90





	fix me when i break myself on the edges of revenge

**Author's Note:**

> stay safe, guys

The first time Wolffe sees Plo, there’s a bruise the size and shape of a fist inked onto his cheek. He seems disturbingly unconcerned about it, even as he winces when sharp bullets of rain pelt onto it.   
“One large black coffee, three sugars, please.” he says as Wolffe stares at his flimsy shirt, the blood-darkened bandage wrapped around his bare bicep, the freezing sleet spilling over his shoulders.    
Processing the order, he grimaces. Probably working at a to go coffee cart is not the best occupation for someone with as many opinions on hot beverages as Wolffe has, but that doesn’t mean that after ten years drinking the garbage the GAR calls caffeine straight he can understand people who have access to milk and sugar and don’t take advantage of it.    
“One minute.” he tells the man, and disappears into the back. “Here.” he holds out the sweater, big and dark grey, Coruscant University emblazoned across the back. Ahsoka had given it to him as a present four months ago, but he can get another and, though this mysterious, beat-up stranger may be tall and broad, he’s shivering violently. Wolffe’s spent too long taking care of his brothers to let anyone out in this rain in what his customer is valiantly trying to pass off as a shirt.    
“Oh, n-no I couldn’t possibly-” he tries to protest.   
“Your teeth are chattering.” Wolffe interrupts flatly. “Take the damn sweater.”    
He shakes for a few more seconds then admits defeat.   
“Thank you.” he says. Wolffe grunts, starting to prepare the drink.    
When he tries to hand it over, long fingers twist into brands around his wrist and he meets the man’s eyes.    
“ _ Thank you. _ ” he insists, and then takes the coffee, pressing the payment into Wolffe’s palm.

The second time, Cody’s dragged him into another one of his insane plans to seduce the professor he has a crush on. As the martial arts elective instructor, you wouldn’t think he’d have anything to do with the English and Comparative Literature, but Cody’s always been the kind to prove assumptions wrong.    
Wolffe hadn’t much understood what he’d been thinking when Rex had told him about the short ginger their brother had apparently fallen head over heels for, and become even more befuddled when he’d actually met the man. Soft-spoken, polite, and with actual elbow patches on his knitted tan sweater.   
When he’d realized that this professor was a famous graduate of the Jedi Academy of Fencing, though, it had started to make sense. And only when he’d walked up to the gym to bring Cody the lunch he’s forgotten at their apartment and seen the man strip off his shirt and demonstrate to his class how to throw someone twice your size across the room-Cody had walked into the wall twice in the span of three seconds twice after seeing that-had Wolffe fully begun to appreciate the nature of his brother’s crush.   
With that much blackmail, it’s completely mystifying to Wolffe how he ended up dancing in line right along with Ponds, Fox, Bly and Rex as Cody leaps, bops and frolics to his heart’s desire. And then the stranger from yesterday pushes the door open, holding Wolffe’s sweater. He trips, and Rex catches him, making the move look purposeful, and follows his gaze.   
“Professor Koon?” he asks in a despairing tone. “Couldn’t you have chosen someone who I don’t have to see on a daily basis, like Cody?” It takes him a second, and then Wolffe’s bashing Rex with a Keldable, hoping it looks like a dance move and not a random attack.    
“First of all, it’s not like that. I sold him coffee yesterday and made him take my sweater because he was barely wearing a shirt and it was freezing,” they kick and spin in unison coordination the resulting combination of serving together for three years and many embarrassing hours of practicing that exact move under Cody’s tutelage. “And second, if you so much as imply anytime within the next week that Cody is not your least favorite brother, then I’ll have to get Kix to check you out.” Rex concedes with a nod, jumping and clicking his heels the song crescendos and Cody flips and slides on his knees underneath Wolffe and Fox as the somersault over his head.    
“Go out with me tonight?” he asks Obi-Wan. Pressing a hand to his mouth, the man dips his head and hits Cody’s shoulder lightly with his palm, before pulling him up and into a kiss. On the observation balcony where they keep the extra mats, Wolffe spots the head of the Slavic Languages Department stepping out of the shadows, clapping slowly. Ponds pales at the sight of his boss, burying his face in his hands.    
“I’m going to kill Kote.” he mumbles. Fox pats him on the shoulder in commiseration.    
“That was quite a performance.” someone rumbles from behind Wolffe.    
“Thanks,” he says, then turns. “We’ve been practicing for a while.”   
“I don’t think I introduced myself yesterday.” the man remarks, grinning slightly. “I’m Plo Koon.”   
“Wolffe Fett.” he replies, taking the purple sweater when it’s held out. Plo’s silver eyes spark with interest, behind a pair of dark glasses. Wolffe notes absently that the bruise on his dark cheek has faded to a blotchy purplish yellow.   
“Ah, I believe I have one of your brothers in my class.”   
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Wolffe tells him, heading for the bench with his water bottle. “I have about thirty.” Plo looks faintly surprised, and glances back to where Fox and Ponds are engaged in a poke battle. Rex has wandered off to a corner, where he’s complaining to Ahsoka’s merciless laughter.   
“Comet, I think.” he says, following.    
“Probably,” Wolffe agrees. “I think he’s mentioned you a couple of times.” Plo grins.   
“I’m not memorable enough to recognize?” he asks, and Wolffe can’t tell if he’s joking or actually offended, so he sticks to sarcasm.   
“Not at all,” he replies, glancing pointedly at the intricate tattoos curling around Plo’s bare biceps-which are, admittedly, quite nice, but he’s not enough of a disaster to say so-and then grins. “If nothing else, I think Comet should have made sure I’d recognize you as the professor who never wears a proper shirt.”   
“Well then you might have mistaken me for Doctor Fisto.” Plo says conversationally, falling into stride with Wolffe as he walks out of the gym, pulling the sweater over the skimpy tank-top Cody had bought in matching colors for all of them and insisted they wear. It didn’t do much about the leggings situation, but he’d take what he could get.   
“Most likely.” Wolffe agrees once he gets his head into the hood.    
“This is my classroom.” Plo says apologetically. Wolffe nods and jerks his head in farewell, continuing down the hallway. 

Plo shows up the next morning with a fresh set of bruises and a new coffee order.

“Plo.”   
“Obi-Wan, good morning!” Plo grins at his friend, light glancing off the lenses of his glasses. One of them is cracked.   
“Why are you sitting on the floor, Plo?” he asks, tiredly.   
“It’s a nice day,” Plo replies cheerfully. “And I wanted to appreciate it.”   
“Your class started twenty minutes ago, Plo. You’re never late. The students are worried.” Plo shifts and winces, and Obi-Wan sighs. “Which ankle is it?”   
“Whatever do you mean, my friend?”   
“The broken ankle,” Obi-Wan taps his foot impatiently, punching a number into his phone. “Left or right?” Plo’s shoulders slump.    
“Right,” he admits defeatedly. “And tell her I have a minor concussion.”   
“Plo! Morning Luminara, sorry to bother you. Yeah. Yeah. Ankle and concussion. He says it’s minor. I’m not either. See you in a minute.” he shuts the phone with a snap, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. “Come on. She’s got a bed waiting for you.”

“Why do you do this to yourself, Plo?” Luminara sighs when they arrive at the clinic, sending an intern scuttling off to his would-be classroom with a few words to inform the students that the class is cancelled. He looks up at her, and his silver eyes are inestimably sad through the dark lenses.   
“For Sha.” he says simply, and her eyes soften. Obi-Wan makes a sound as though someone spontaneously dropped a small elephant on his solar plexus. Luminara glares at him, and drops to her knees in front of his bed, armed with medical supplies. Plo barely winces throughout the whole process, eyes staring unseeingly at the blank wall.    
“Obi-Wan, do you want to go-” Luminara stands, brushing off the front of her long, black skirt, vague motions apparently conveying something to the redhead. His eyes widen.   
“Is that-”   
“Probably. I don’t know why, though.”    
He nods, setting off out of the room at a brisk pace.

“Professor Kenobi.” Wolffe says, not bothering to hide his surprise. According to Cody, Obi-Wan is very much much a tea person and detests coffee.   
“Good morning. Do you-well, do you happen to know Plo’s coffee order?” he asks, looking somewhat embarrassed.   
“Black, three sugars,” Wolffe answers, even more suspiciously. “Do I want to know why?”   
“He’s injured again. Broke an ankle this time, so he’s in the clinic.” Obi-Wan answers.    
“He asked for coffee?” he sounds completely incredulous, and Obi-Wan frowns.    
“No, but he gets it every morning he chaperones. Never tells us his schedule, though, otherwise the clinic would have someone on standby.” Wolffe looks almost laughably bewildered. “There’s a volunteer program to chaperone the kids in some of the less nice neighborhoods in the area to school every morning. There was a series of incidents last year, that’s when it started. Plo’s been a part of it since the beginning, and manages to frequently injure himself whenever he does-Luminara suspects it’s muggers, but I’m not quite as sure. He always has coffee along with a new bruise or cut, so we assumed-” he cuts off at the thunderous expression on Wolffe’s face. He pushes the coffee at him, and then disappears into the back.   
  
Plo’s got a cut across his arm and bloody knuckles the next time Wolffe sees him. It’s almost March, so the downpour is warmer than it had been in the autumn, but rainwater pools to the pavement a rusty red.    
Wolffe tilts his head in greeting, then bends down to pull a medkit off the shelves.    
He bolts the cart door behind himself, and hands Plo his coffee. It’d been easy to see him coming a few minutes in advance; the street’s long and straight, nearly abandoned by it’s usual student population as morning classes started.    
Plo allows himself to be directed to a slightly less damp bench sheltered by an overhang of branches.   
Rain has washed away most of the blood from the starbursts on his hands, so Wolffe begins there, gently cleaning them and letting them dry for a few moments before covering them with small band-aids.   
He does the same for the slash spreading across Plo’s arm, cutting into the edge of his inked shoulder.   
He looks up to meet Plo’s gaze, dark glasses missing as clouded as the day is.   
“Thank you.” Plo says, fingers squeezing Wolffe’s tight. He nods, words stuck.    
Rain and time falls around, spilling off the leaves and running rivers down the thin branches, ignoring the moment.


End file.
